


Hunger

by crewdlydrawn



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Alley Blow Jobs, Blow Jobs, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Drabble, Fantasy, M/M, Predator/Prey, please dear god don't let that tag take off, sort of, spermpire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 21:01:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6024736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crewdlydrawn/pseuds/crewdlydrawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rookie cop John Blake has a secret.  He is a vampire, but not for blood.  Requiring the ingesting of sperm to survive leads to an alternative lifestyle that preys and feeds on Gotham City's nightlife in somewhat less than harmful ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunger

**Author's Note:**

> Full blame rests on my dear, crazy friend (CaptainBubblyGreenBubbles on tumblr) who challenged me to write John Blake as a "Spermpire".
> 
> I wrote this three years ago, but instead of writing new things, apparently I'm dredging.

Third bar in the same night. If Blake didn't get a willing take soon, he'd have to resort to more... insistent and urgent measures, and he didn't prefer to let it get that bad.

 

It wasn't usually that difficult to find a take, especially the closer to the Narrows he went. Didn't even matter if the bar was known for gay hookups or not. A blow was a blow, and in a dark back alley, not many guys really cared whether it was a guy's mouth or a girl's mouth, when it came right down to it. He'd taken plenty of guys who would swear to whatever god they prayed to at night that they were straight as a board. It didn't matter; straight or gay, they fed him just fine.

 

The first bar had been too full of cops. He'd had those, they took fine—when they weren't around their cop buddies, anyway. It was better for _him_ that way, too. He wasn't that well known, still a rookie working the desks at the station, but every once in a while he got a look of derisive recognition, and he had to find a new site for the evening.

 

The second bar, well, he knew the type too well to stay. Try to take a guy back to the alley with any of those guys around, and he'd earn himself a fight he just wasn't looking for. And the take would get a beating Blake wouldn't feel like protecting him from, especially not after feeding. He knew he'd feel plenty guilty over getting him hurt later, though, when the high wore off.

 

So it was on to the third. The crowd was about the right size, small enough to pinpoint a good mark, large enough for the rest of them not to notice if he slipped out back with one. On to a third opening round; he was starting to get a bit tipsier than he preferred, but he had a ways to go before he was too drunk to handle getting a few takes. A girl tried to leave him her number on a napkin a mere 7 minutes in, slid it to him all stealthy, making the kind of eyes most barhopping idiots would nearly kill to see. He took it, smiling at her placatingly, and figured maybe he'd call her on another night, when he'd gotten enough to sate him for a while.

 

It wasn't always as simple as sending a paid-for round over to a mark. Most of the time, it was a far more subtle communication, one that didn't involve the bartender, and didn't capture the attention of the rest of the patrons.

 

Like the eyes he just caught looking his way from across the room. He made a show of looking around after he spotted them, taking a swallow from his beer with just the right amount of casual motion, before he turned on his stool, glancing over with a ticked-up eyebrow. The guy didn't keep eye-contact, didn't have to. He ran his tongue out over his lips, just slowly enough, and Blake watched him flick his eyes toward the back exit. He couldn't help an amused smirk twitching at his lips, though he held it in check; this guy was no newbie. First-timers were fun in their own way, but sometimes it was nice, especially when he was getting really famished, to find a no-nonsense take who was looking for just what he got.

 

Paying for his drink, tipping the barkeep with a smile that tended to keep him in the good graces of the local establishments, he headed for the back door, making sure to walk right past the guy who'd caught his eye, not-so-accidentally brushing the arm of his jacket as he passed.

 

He was itching for a cigarette while he waited the time for it not to be obvious, but he didn't want to sour the flavor. It had been a week this time, busy with exams and training for him to get out on the street, a beat of his own, and he simply hadn't had the time to scope out a meal. He would have to be more careful, of course, that it didn't happen again; he'd been desperate once before, and hadn't liked how it made him feel, how it made him act. Some of his kind didn't bother with the pretenses, took what they wanted, who they wanted, when they wanted it, but that wasn't the kind of life he wanted for himself.

 

Finally, the guy found his way out the back, nearly tripping over the threshold, but recovering smoothly enough to reassure Blake he wasn't too drunk to spoil his dinner. Whistling quietly, he got the guy's attention, luring him back to the shadows under the awning, the pale yellow street light not quite reaching the back wall of the bar.

 

"Hey," he was greeted with a nod. "I'm--"

 

"Shhh," he interrupted, reaching out to lay a finger over the guy's lips. "No names, darlin." He got another nod, this time in agreement, and Blake guided him to stand against the corrugated metal siding behind him. Once settled, he gave the guy a smirk, running a hand down his chest--a pretense, and all the foreplay he tended to offer unless it became necessary--as he sank to his knees in front of him.

 

"You want a rubber?" he was asked quietly. How considerate. A condom would, however, be the equivalent of trying to eat his meal through its wrapper. And he simply didn't like the taste of latex. Nasty stuff.

 

He hummed a negative, palming over the crotch of the jeans in front of him, enjoying the gasp it earned. Even if he wasn't much for the appetizers, he could admit giving out a few efforts often got him a better main course.

 

"I'm not worried," he explained, and his take didn't bother asking again. In truth, he was in the much less risky position of the two of them, anyway, and he'd yet to hear of one of his kind having been vulnerable to the diseases passed around by the full-bloods.

 

It didn't take long to work the already hardening cock up to its full attention, even before he mercifully freed it from its confines. The reveal wasn't much to look at, less than average in every dimension, but that mattered very little to Blake. Little cocks shot their loads just the same as big cocks, and sometimes even tasted better. He wasn't sure why, but they did.

 

So he took hold of the base of the guy's shaft, giving him a few encouraging pulls, reveling in the change of his breathing pattern, the way every few inhales now hitched in his throat. The trembles through the other man's frame thrilled him. Even though trolling the bars was its own equivalent, working a man up to his orgasm felt the most like a primal hunt to him. It was chasing the take's arousal, pouncing on his cock like prey, and then the last.

 

The devouring.

 

Flicking his eyes up to catch his take's for a moment, in just enough of the glow of the street lamp for their sheen to be seen, Blake couldn't fully hold back a snarl as he sank down, swallowing the swollen cock whole. A startled look met him, drove him on. The sound of hands slapping back against the metal wall was a bit loud for a stealthy meeting, but he was also too amused by it to let it bother him much. He had a sudden feeling this take wouldn't need to take long.

 

As he sucked, licking his tongue out and around the head, he could feel the tightening of his own stomach, the heat in his blood as his body readied for its meal. It had been long enough without one, and it would be a good one, he could smell it. Men who ejaculated a greater volume than others had a distinct scent, riper, muskier, and fuller. Inhaling deeply through his nose, he reveled in it.

 

It was quick work after all, and in only a few moments of working him over, the man grunted, his body going tense, his breathing pausing as his orgasm shuddered through him. Scent never lied; thick, hot come shot into Blake's mouth in four separate spurts, each sizable in its own right. It wasn't enough to fill his mouth, especially as he leaned back to just hold the tip between his lips, but it was a better serving than the last dozen or so he'd taken.

 

He didn't pull back until the twitching had ceased, until he'd pumped his hand along the short shaft, milking it for all it was worth. When at last it gave no more, he swallowed languidly, savoring the flavor, feeling the warmth spread further through his blood. His ‘no-names’ policy was smart in that it served both sides well, but damn if he didn't sometimes wish he could write one down to more easily find the same take a second time. Unable to resist rooting out as much of the intoxicating taste as he could, Blake ran the tip of his tongue over the man's slit, dipping in against the opening, teasing out as much come that hadn't made its journey all the way out as he could. It was even saltier, straight from the tap, as it were.

 

"Sh-shit..." groaned out the startled voice above him.

 

Blake couldn't help chuckling low in his throat as he noted how the man hadn't lost his erection, how he was beginning to drip out precome again, the more Blake's tongue teased him. Testingly, he eased the firm little cock back into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks as he sucked him steadily down. There was no protest; in fact, the man's breathing sped up, and he squirmed against the wall even as Blake's appetite began to grow anew.

 

A twofer.

 

Perfect.


End file.
